


Cast some light (and you'll be alright)

by hideyourfires



Series: A Love like Religion [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, Or At Least I Tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: “You’re wearing a dress.” He says, suddenly. Catlin frowns up at him. “It’s good.” He rushes. “I mean, you look lovely. I mean - Maker, is it warm here?”He laughs, awkwardly. She stays stony silent, staring up at him. Her cheeks are pink. He thinks he might have offended her somehow, and curses his clumsy way with words.Then, just as suddenly as his own outburst, she says, “Would you like to dance, Cullen?”The Inquisitor and Cullen attend celebrations in the Hinterlands. It’s thrilling. It’s maddening. He won’t let time or lyrium steal this memory, this moment, from him, no matter how long he lives.





	Cast some light (and you'll be alright)

**Author's Note:**

> I tried really hard to write something short and fluffy but I'm not very good at writing happy things I guess.  
> No pain no point am I right?

The Hinterlands. Just days, weeks before now, it had been plagued by rifts and demons, torn apart by warring mages and templars. The refugees had been cold and starving, the farms were failing, and it had been altogether miserable. And today, they’re throwing a party.

The templars had been forced out of their encampment in Fort Connor, and the red lyrium had been destroyed, allowing the nearby settlers to return to their homes. The place is still a mess, but instead of turning thoughts to rebuilding and saving all the resources they can, they had decided to celebrate. And, of course, had cordially invited the Inquisitor and all who aid her to join. Duty-bound, Catlin had accepted, and, Haven still weighing heavy on his mind, Cullen had accompanied her. She can handle herself, he knows, but he’s not about to make the same mistake twice.

From the corner of his eye, Cullen sees Catlin making her way up the steps to join him.

“The world is ending, and here we are.” He says, looking out over the dancing crowds. It’s like the weddings of his childhood, lively and whirling, everything he would have tried to claw himself away from as a young boy.

“You disapprove, commander?” Catlin responds. There’s a smile on her face. In her voice.

“On the contrary,” He replies, “Victories must be celebrated.”

“And yet here you stand.” She gestures to the distance between them and the celebrations. He had headed for high ground, a better perspective, and far from the reach of giggling locals.

 _Locals_. He’d grown up a stone’s throw from here. When had he stopped thinking of it as home?

“And here you are beside me.” He replies. She’s not dancing either.

Her smile falters. “I’m finding it a little difficult to relax.”

“I know the feeling.” He’s never been the most laid-back person, but after Haven he thinks he might sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life. They had been celebrating then, too. He’s beginning to think this might not have been such a good idea, after all.

It’s then that Catlin looks up at him, her lips pressed together as though she is suppressing laughter. “I like your crown.”

Cullen reaches up, and his fingers brush against the wreath of flowers on his head. His cheeks glow pink. “I’d forgotten I was wearing it.”

“It’s very… dashing.”

“A little girl gave it to me. She was very insistent.”

“You would have turned her down?”

“No! No, of course not.” He leans in close to Catlin, angling his lips level with her ear. “She’s been glaring at you ever since you walked over.”

Catlin turns her head to face where he is looking. Sure enough, there is a cherubic little girl glaring daggers at her.

She turns back to him, grinning. “We can’t take you anywhere, can we?”

_Maker, she’s beautiful._

The thought surprises him. It’s not as if it isn’t true, and it’s not as if he hasn’t noticed before – but he has never thought anything of it. It has never been of consequence. In the same way forests and mountains are beautiful, it is not for him; she will go on being beautiful, regardless of his observation. Now… something stirs in him. In his chest.

Her hair is down. She usually has it tied up in a plait, practical and lovely, like her, but today it’s loose, fiery strands long and sleek. It gathers and pools about her shoulders, her delicate collarbones visible above the neckline of her dress.

Her dress is simple, a faded red with the collar and sleeves of her slip visible underneath. It has no frills, no fancy embroidery, no lace, almost as if she could hike up her skirts and sleeves and start farming the fields at any moment. And yet, it only serves to make her more lovely.

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how. He needs to speak soon – she might walk away if he leaves it for too long – so he blurts out the first words that come to his head.

“You’re wearing a dress.” He says, suddenly. Catlin frowns up at him.

“It’s good.” He rushes. “I mean, you look lovely. I mean - Maker, is it warm here?”

He laughs, awkwardly. She stays stony silent, staring up at him. Her cheeks are pink. He thinks he might have offended her somehow, and curses his clumsy way with words.

Then, just as suddenly as his own outburst, she says, “Would you like to dance, Cullen?”

“You want to _dance_?”

She’s still looking at him, tight-lipped and blushing. It occurs to him that she was being earnest.

He wants to kick himself. _Idiot._

“Oh, I – Yes. I think I could manage that, with the right partner.”

A smile breaks across her face, and for just a moment, Cullen basks in it, feels it tugging at his own lips.

Then she says, “Excellent. I know just the little girl.”

He sputters protests, dumbstruck, but she’s already walking away.

The little girl glares at Catlin all along the way, until she speaks – and then she beams from ear to ear. It’s sweet, really. Alright – it’s adorable. And Catlin is smiling at him.

So, with all the enthusiasm he can muster, he gets down on one knee and asks the little girl to dance. He does it formally, as a chevalier might at an Orlesian ball, and the little girl grins wide throughout. It’s only then that he realises the flaw in the mechanics of dancing with someone so much shorter than him, and he tries to remember what his father used to do when Rosalie wanted to dance. He sees them whirling and laughing in his head, and does his best to emulate.

He whisks her through three dances, her feet standing on his, and another two because she demands it, and because her eyes are far too big and he is far too soft to turn her down.

Then the tempo changes, becomes more lively, and it’s time for group dances. Before he can leave the trampled floor, he’s pulled into the throng of people. He begins to fight his way back out (politely, apologising all the while) when he sees Catlin join, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad.

It’s thrilling. It’s maddening. They are thrown together, again and again, almost and barely touching. Her hand ghosting his. Ducking under her arm. Being dragged back before they can meet in the middle.

When he finally collapses onto the grass, out of the way of the few remaining dancers, the sky has become heavy with darkness. Catlin drops down beside him, panting, eyes a little wild. They sit together, just breathing, occasionally glancing at each other and bursting into laughter. It’s amazing how quickly he can lose himself around her. He feels as though he is glowing.

He drags himself onto his feet, then holds his hand out to help her up. She doesn’t need the help, of course – she’s the strongest woman he knows – but it doesn’t stop him from offering, and she accepts. He pulls her up, and her body stumbles into his, bumping into his front. They both laugh quietly, still a little breathless.

His face is just inches from hers. He can feel her warm breath on his cheeks, see every tiny detail of her face. He tries to commit it to memory – her lips, thin, but perfectly heart-shaped at their bow, the barely-there freckles on the bridge of her nose, the faded scar that arcs from her forehead, over her eye, to her cheek. He won’t let time or lyrium steal this memory, this moment, from him, no matter how long he lives.

A night breeze blows a few red strands into her eyes, deep brown and lovely, and he reaches up to brush them away, tucking her hair behind her ears. She stays stock still, eyes fixed on him. Instead of dropping his hand once he’s done, he traces her scar with his finger. He doesn’t know how she got it, if it hurt, but he is taken over by an overwhelming desire to kiss her there.

Suddenly, it is as though the sky is weighing down on him, and the world goes quiet. It’s just them, alone, under the endless expanse of the night sky. Time has slowed down. All he can hear is her breathing, can see her chest heaving. He leans in.

Catlin’s breath hitches. “I’ve - I’ve never –”

The moment falls apart around him. The world rushes back into focus, the music and cheering suddenly loud in his ears. The night air is cold.

“It’s alright.” He says, “I understand.”

He steps back, allowing her space. The glowing feeling is spilling out of him, bleeding out like the golden sands in an hourglass. He hasn’t been kissing her for all this time – why should it make a difference now? Why does his heart feel as though it’s weighed down by an anvil? Why do his arms feel empty in her absence?

“Cullen?”

She’s looking at him, still breathing heavy. Her jaw is set, fists clenched, determination written all over. He thinks, this is probably what her enemies see. He thinks, this is probably the last thing her enemies see. He thinks, if it were him, he wouldn’t mind.

Her hand reaches up, tangling her fingers in his tunic, slipping under his armour. Her gaze travels down his features, down, down, and comes to rest on his lips.

It’s so painfully gentle, the barest touch of lips on his. Butterflies are more violent than this. He isn’t quite the innocent chantry boy he is thought to be, yet, chaste as it is, he’s wild with it. He can feel himself unravelling, coming undone beneath her clever fingers, her delicate lips. He wants to grasp her waist and kiss her slowly, leisurely. He wants it desperate and urgent. He wants it so gentle it aches.

She pulls away. Slowly, her eyes open, and she glances over the dancing crowds. Her voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. “I was half expecting explosions.”

“You didn’t feel them?” His own voice is husky with longing.

She laughs, a silent noise, her forehead resting against his chest. When she looks up again, though, she isn’t smiling. She almost looks pained. “That’s not what I meant.”

She looks down over the celebrations, her hands resting on the tumbledown stone wall.

“If I let go, if I let one thing slip, everything falls apart. If I close my eyes, the world sets on fire. Something like this – wanting something – I was expecting an archdemon to fall out of the sky.”

He joins her, and she turns back to him. She looks tired, suddenly. Her lips are being pulled down at their corners, and her eyes are lined with lack of sleep. He wants to hold her.

“You should allow yourself to rest.” He says. “You’ve earned it.”

“And what about you?”

It catches him off guard. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. Finally, he says, “Someone has to watch.”

She nods.

Then she breaks away from him, and she’s the Inquisitor again, the Herald of Andraste, protector of the people. “We should get back to work.”


End file.
